


Flat White, No Foam

by dayse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Late Night Conversations, Random Encounters, Steter - Freeform, coffee house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayse/pseuds/dayse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Peter continues to sit in front of him, unruffled GQ Wolf of the Year with his stupid Isaac scarf, neatly crossed legs, and permanently raised eyebrow.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flat White, No Foam

**Author's Note:**

> A short conversation piece between Stiles and Peter. Many thanks to jcjoeyfreak for being the best beta ever (as usual) :D.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://daysecraze.tumblr.com).

In the rational part of Stiles’ brain he understood that when the Sheriff said, ‘it’s Friday, go do normal teenager things’, his immediate reaction shouldn’t have been ‘but no one’s been killed horribly lately, no one’s even _possessed_ , there’s nothing to _do_ ’ followed by lots of confusion and a desire to complain. What the hell was normal anymore anyway? Normal had left Beacon Hills for Stiles the second his best friend had tried to eat him on the full moon. And not even in the fun, kinky experimental way Stiles kept hearing teenaged boys got curious about. Not that Stiles was curious, of course.

It was just one of those tiring end-of-the-weeks where Stiles felt like he had no gas in the tank (both himself and his jeep were running on fumes and luck at this point), and socializing was pretty much out of the question. Who had the energy? It was something Scott had always understood and never pushed him on, and something Malia understood a little less but humoured anyway. She was good that way.

A vague overall feeling of apathy and anti-socialness was how Stiles had ended up at the Sheriff’s station, feet kicked up on his dad’s desk, making snarky remarks about the varying degrees of ugliness of the people in the Wanted posters.

But that had only lasted about 20 minutes after Stiles had arrived, and all the offers of slave labour filing and unlimited coffee runs hadn’t been enough to keep him from getting kicked out. There was a new case going on that had everyone preoccupied and all of Stiles’ cajoling, begging and complaining hadn’t been enough to wrangle a single detail out of anyone. Stiles is pretty sure it was just a series of breaking and enterings anyway since none of the crime scene photos he had managed to glimpse included bodies or blood splattered walls.

It’s probably more than a little fucked up that he’s kind of disappointed about that, but boredom was ... something something devil’s idle hands and the necessity of ... invention. Something like that, Lydia would know.

Fifteen minutes after getting into his car and hitting the road, Stiles realizes he’s taken himself to the _Beanery_ and gives his subconscious a congratulatory _yay_ because of _course. Coffee._ The answer to everything was always coffee, and despite the cold and sleet currently pounding his defenseless little jeep, Stiles feels a warm glow of optimism as he pulls up to a parking spot just as a red Honda pulls out.

It’s a feeling that lasts even as Stiles runs from his car to the front door of the shop, shivering from the rain as he holds his hood in place and squints to see ahead of him, before dying a swift and untimely death as soon as he walks inside.

It’s 11pm but the place is packed. Stiles yanks back his hood a bit more aggressively than needed, sending some droplets of water flying. So much for finding a seat by the fireplace, even the wobbly uncomfortable stools by the windows are taken and Stiles hates those stools. But even they would have been better than sitting in his car with his busted radio and even more busted heater.

At least the line looks to be moving steadily and Stiles takes a moment to admire the four girls behind the counter, taking money and churning out drinks with the speed and grace of a NASCAR pit crew. Stiles figures they could all probably kick his ass on the lacrosse field, too, he can’t recall ever being that coordinated.

Stiles has just taken a step toward the lineup when he feels a sudden wave of ... something come over him, not quite a chill, but more like one sharp claw moving slowly across the surface of his brain.

He tenses and looks around, wondering what it could be, but then the three girls in front of him move to the side to reveal _Peter Hale_ of all people and the night has officially gone from normal to _fuck_ normal in two rapid heartbeats. It’s almost a relief.

For a moment, Stiles just stands and watches Peter smile and chat ( _flirt??_ ) with the barista, looking deceptively normal and pleasant. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy outside of a life or death situation before and feels his legs tense with an instinctive urge to run, it’s all incredibly bizarre, like seeing a great white shark just chilling on the beach instead of dismembering surfers.

A deliberate and annoyed throat-clearing behind him starts Stiles out of his thoughts and he realizes he’s been standing in front of the doorway pretty much blocking traffic since he walked in and saw Peter, the proverbial fish-out-of-water. The throat clearer, a short brunette girl with cat-eye glasses and an over-sized peacoat, gives him a sneer which might have cowed Stiles before but now only makes him sneer back. Possession by a chaos demon and a friendship with Lydia Martin could change a guy.

A waft of coffee from a passing cup gets Stiles moving again and he gets into line behind two girls from school who stare at him and whom Stiles ignores, distracted. He’s on his tiptoes, staring over heads to try and see what Peter’s doing. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything diabolical - just paying for his order and dropping bills into the tip jar - but that’s what makes Peter so diabolical, he appears perfectly fine right up until he isn’t, then he’s back to normal-but-slightly-quirky uncle Peter again right after. It’s confusing and disturbing as fuck and Stiles isn’t buying it. He’s sure it’s all part of Peter’s plan to disorientate everyone anyway.

“ _Excuse me,_ ” the girl in front of him says, “can you back off, you’re standing on my foot.”

Stiles pauses and looks down. Oops. He clears his throat and backs up, offers an awkward apology smile which just gets him more sneering and a hair flip as she turns back around. He couldn’t see much anyway.

By the time Stiles gets to the front of the line, he’s anxious and his right eye is twitching in a way that barely gets him a second look from the girl behind the register. He orders an extra large cup of the house blend and absently stuffs a few bills into the tip jar as he looks around for Peter but he can’t see him anywhere and Stiles relaxes slightly as he figures Peter’s already left, disappearing back into the darkness from which he came like a cockroach. Or Batman. Not that Peter’s nearly cool enough to be Batman.

The crowd also isn’t any thinner than when Stiles first came in. People stand around various tables or the large gas fireplace in the middle of the room, ready to pounce the second a seat becomes free. Fuck it, Stiles thinks, his shitty jeep and then home it is. He can play some WoW, maybe give Scott a call, and pretend he’s the ‘normal’ teenager his dad wishes he was. Stiles goes to the sugar/cream/lids counter and has just snapped a lid into place when he spots Peter in a prime seat at a two person table in the far back corner of the coffee house.

Peter really needs to stop just appearing like that because it gives Stiles heart palpitations and he’s way too young to have a heart attack, thanks.

Stiles is struck again by how the weirdest thing is how normal Peter looks, how much he fits in. Stiles knows that doesn’t make sense because what’s he expecting anyway? Blood and fangs and maniacal laughter? Well, Stiles could handle that. But this new Peter with his almost aggressively in-your-face _averageness_ is unsettling and Stiles finds himself stalled again, cup in hand, as he stares openly at him.

Peter’s removed his coat but kept his scarf and is sipping from a steaming mug as he flips through a book with faded gold lettering on the front ("How to Summon Evil Demons for Evil" probably). It's a ridiculously cliche picture, he's like the coffee house poster boy, good-looking and unassuming, like he could be a professor from BHU or a struggling novelist.

Stiles looks out at the rain again then back at Peter who is serenely turning a page of his book. It's impossible to tell if he's noticed Stiles or not, but Stiles figures he has. He's walking over before he realizes he's doing it and abruptly remembers the first time he'd ever been alone with Peter - possibly the most terrifying couple of hours of his life.

Stiles figures this ability he's developed to adapt and compartmentalize since then is something he can discuss with his future therapist. Stiles stops in front of Peter's table and Peter doesn't look up from his book. "How'd you get this table?" Stiles demands because he’s tactful like that and figures it’s slightly less stupid than ‘what are you doing here?’.

"Right place at the right time," Peter says without missing a beat or looking up. "I'm good at that."

Stiles feels like he should say something cutting but can't really think of what. Besides, it's kind of true. "Right." Stiles pauses long enough for Peter to look up at him, his expression expectant and, well, weird. But then Peter's face is kind of weird - neutral but somewhat empty, too. Careful. Like he's planning _everything_ : his blinks, his squints, his smirks. Like his face is animatronic and needs to work really hard at appearing as realistic as possible, but just ends up just looking too careful. It’s some weird uncanny valley shit anyway. Stiles gets an anxious itchy teeth feeling before Peter sighs and goes back to his book.

"Either leave or sit down, your open-mouthed hovering is attracting attention. People are going to think I just broke-up with you."

The chair scrapes loudly across the floor as Stiles pulls it out to sit while simultaneously trying to wrestle himself out of his coat and scarf and put his steaming coffee cup on the table. He feels a need to do it all quickly before he changes his mind because he’s having coffee with Peter Hale like it's a perfectly normal thing to do and not an insane Tuesdays with Morrie type situation. Well, if Morrie had been a psychopathic serial killer that is. Actually, that could have made that book way better. Pretentious piece of crap.

"Must you always be such a spectacle?"

Stiles ignores Peter and grabs up his cup when he's properly seated and attempts to guzzle a few mouthfuls of coffee, burning himself in the process. He makes several faces to prevent from screaming (he's already screaming on the inside anyway) before he puts his cup back down and breathes. Peter continues to sit in front of him, unruffled GQ Wolf of the Year with his stupid Isaac scarf, neatly crossed legs, and permanently raised eyebrow. Stiles attempts to adopt a similarly casual, nonchalant expression but suspects he just looks like he's trying to hold in a fart.

They stare at each other for a few moments before Peter slowly picks up his own cup and takes a careful sip before putting it back down on its saucer. Stiles expects him to just go back to his book so he's surprised when Peter marks his place with a scrap of paper (what, no bookmark forged from human flesh?), closes it, and sets it down on the table. It's bizarrely polite.

But then Peter’s always been _bizarrely polite._

"So," Peter drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word, "how's school?"

O-kay. Creepy. "That is so disturbing what you just did there." But the question immediately brings forth a flood of possible answers and subjects: lacrosse, math test he got a 79% on (not good enough to brag, not bad enough to stress over, goodish mediocre-ish unspectacular-ish - three words that Stiles finds he’s been associating with himself more and more this past year), lacrosse, Malia's big pretty eyes (God, Peter doesn't have the same eyes does he? no, okay, no), dissected frogs in bio that kind of remind Stiles of terrible _terrible_ things (does he have PTSD?), Scott, Liam, Scott. Lacrosse.

Bacon on the lasagna in the school cafeteria. Fucking fantastic.

"You know, it's fascinating to watch you think. I can practically see the hamster running on the wheel." Peter's staring at Stiles in that intense but casual way mentally deranged homeless people sometimes do and Stiles is about to say just that when Peter pushes a small plate across the table at Stiles. "Scone?"

"Um." Stiles eyes it for a moment. It's cranberry-lemon, his third favourite. He tries to mentally calculate the probability of Peter having seen Stiles coming to poison it in some way and only comes up with a percentage of FREE SCONE. He doubts Peter sees Stiles as worth the price of arsenic anyway.

He picks it up and takes a bite out of it, causing some crumbs to drop out of his lips and onto the table and his lap. "Thanks," Stiles says, causing more crumbs to spray out of his mouth. Even Stiles is embarrassed by that one and he wipes his lips and takes another too-quick drink of coffee.

"You're welcome," Peter says, brushing off his side of the table. And his scarf.

For a moment there's an only halfway awkward silence as Peter drinks and glances around the room and Stiles stuffs his face with pilfered scone in between gulps of coffee. He wonders why they’re both sitting here, acting like any of this is normal. But Stiles thinks about getting back in his jeep and it’s just much more interesting here. Hell, maybe he could even learn something he could take back to Scott. Stiles is halfway done his scone when he says, in a rush, "Liam is, like, Scott's kid now or something. It's really weird."

Peter slowly turns his head to look at Stiles but says nothing. Stiles chews messily as he stares back.

"Don't get me wrong, he seems like a sweet kid, but you can only watch them together for about five minutes before you want to go to PetSmart and start drop kicking puppies into an industrial fan. They have this weird paternal bond thing happening which makes sense on paper but seeing your 17-year-old best friend and his 15-year-old adopted son is just something I'm adding to the mental tally of things I'm going to end up discussing with a therapist some day."

Along with eating scones with the man who once kidnapped him and threatened to kill him and all his friends. Stiles stuffs more of it into his mouth and chews furiously, wonders if Stockholm Syndrome was still applicable a year after the fact.

“Does that make you the mom?” Peter asks.

This time Stiles doesn’t feel bad at all about coughing some scone all over the table and Peter’s scarf. He reaches for his coffee again as Peter swipes at his scarf and table, frowning delicately to himself. Stiles just glares at him and thinks he’s way more fussy than Stiles has ever noticed before.

“Sorry,” Peter says easily, “how backward thinking of me: of course you can also be the father.” He raises his eyebrows at Stiles in a way that reminds him of Derek, and Stiles wonders if it’s just a Hale family thing - talking through eyebrows. He doesn’t think Malia really does it. Cora kind of did. “I guess, in a way, Liam is sort of my - “

“Don’t. Don’t say it, don’t go there,” Stiles cuts in because werewolf politics/genealogy is just way too much to deal with it before his second coffee. And possibly even his fourth or fifth. Still, it’s not like Stiles hasn’t thought about it. He stares down at the small plate with the demolished scone on it, resists the urge to stuff the rest of it in his mouth right away. Peter is still plucking lightly at his scarf, brushing away stray crumbs, and Stiles wonders about that, too, if werewolves have some weird obsessive compulsive thing about grooming and orderliness and tidiness. Derek’s loft is always neat as a pin (despite the busted out wall), and Scott’s gotten oddly tyrannical about training, and lacrosse, and his locker. Peter’s just nuts and Stiles is pretty sure he’s the type that rolls up his socks into little balls and never has an incomplete pair. Stiles has never trusted those types.

“So Liam becoming Scott’s beta, I guess that means Scott’ll get stronger.” Stiles eyes Peter. “Does that mean you’ll get stronger, too?”

Peter stares at him, a little too long, his eyes sharp and blue and unblinking. And Stiles thinks it’s intensely satisfying to watch Peter go from bland politeness to rapt attention. Then whatever switch Peter has to show his Nice Wolf to the world is flipped and he smiles, the shutters falling into place again. But maybe it’s not quite the act he was putting on before.

“You’re always one of the first out of the gate aren’t you, Stiles.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, warily. Peter’s pretty much an omega now, Scott hadn’t been Peter’s beta for a very long time if he ever really had been. But there are connections, there’s blood. Werewolves were big on that, these things would still matter, wouldn’t they? There was also Kate running around out there, a werejaguar (were _bitch_ ) and maybe that’s something, too. Although Kate had been around for a while now and Peter had never let on anything about that before, had, in fact, seemed just as surprised as any of them. But that could have been a ploy, too.

When it comes to Peter you really couldn’t discount anything. Stiles grabs the rest of his scone and stuffs into his mouth, still eyeing Peter in an openly suspicious way. Peter seems tolerantly amused, it’s a strangely affectionate look that just further adds to Stiles’ paranoia.

“I’m not a part of Scott’s pack,” Peter eventually says as he drops his attention to his cup and casually swishes around the liquid inside with a coffee stirrer, “so whatever young, nubile - “

“You’re saying this to freak me out, right? Please say you’re saying this to freak me out... “

“- underaged lacrosse players he chooses to sink his teeth into have no impact on me,” Peter finishes. He picks up his cup and drinks innocently, eyeing Stiles over the rim. Stiles wonders if that look actually works on anyone. “But good for him.”

Stiles grunts at that, knowing what Peter’s trying to say. He feels the sudden, urgent need to correct him. “No, it’s not like that. Scott isn’t interested in getting a bunch of betas or whatever, okay? He had to do it. If he hadn’t bitten Liam he would have fallen. Scott didn’t have a choice.”

“Sounds like a choice to me.”

It annoys Stiles that Peter isn’t technically wrong which is the most inconvenient type of not wrong and he falls into sullen silence for a moment. “You would think that,” he finally says. “Some people care about, you know, other people not dying.”

And Peter’s expression changes about five different ways without really changing at all and Stiles knows Peter’s thinking _fire_ and _family_ and Stiles suddenly feels like the biggest asshole in the world, which is saying something considering the asshole sitting across from him.

“Yes,” Peter says, his expression still blandly polite but with a sharpness to his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I guess some people do.”

It occurs to Stiles that Peter does care, he cares intensely, maybe a little too intensely about certain people dying. Revenge-fueled, vendetta level, self-destructive scary caring. Stiles wavers between disturbed and enlightened about that and he eyes the man in front of him with a new kind of understanding. Okay, disturbed. This was all definitely disturbing.

The silence between them lingers and it’s Peter who breaks it but it’s not a acquiescence, it’s just more of that bizarre Peter Hale politeness, in a tone that could even be considered kind. Patient. “You and your friends see me as some sort of remorseless killer and that’s understandable,” Peter says, his eyes lingering on his mostly empty cup, “I’ve done terrible things. I won’t make excuses for them but I will say I had my reasons.” Peter flicks his gaze up and Stiles braces himself for a cutting remark or maybe a threat. “I say this with the utmost sincerity, Stiles: I hope you are never in a position to fully understand them.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something but shuts it when he realizes he doesn’t know what that would be. A part of him wants to say he understands loss _just fine_. His mother, Heather. Allison. Sometimes at night Stiles still thinks about them with a fresh pain that lingers with him until morning.

And Stiles knows about not being quite right in the head, too, of questioning yourself and reality and your life and _everything_. Stiles knows about feeling the dark thing inside eating away at you and telling you to take and devour and destroy, and Stiles even knows about enjoying it. Yeah, Stiles had lost that battle but it hadn’t been his fault and it wasn’t the same and ... goddamn it. Okay. “Okay,” Stiles says softly because maybe, _maybe_ Stiles understands just a little more than either of them had anticipated.

Stiles stands, grabs his coat and scarf and his mostly finished coffee. It’s luke warm through the paper cup. Peter watches him and there seems to be a softer expression there, just around his eyes, but Stiles thinks that might be a put-on, too. Fuck if he knows. Peter’s way better at playing this ‘normal and everything’s fine’ thing than anyone should be.

“I’m here pretty much every Friday,” Stiles says, not sure _why_ , and blinks several times.

Peter just arches an eyebrow at him and says nothing.

Stiles gets the hell out of there.

 


End file.
